.v^N^«r:^ 


"CREEPING  CLOSER  TO  THE  TRAIL."    (P,  15) 


** 


^anta  3te  Strati" 


JOSEPH  Rf  WILSON,  LL.B. 


INTERNATIONAL  PRINTING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 

1921 


1*4, 


COPYRIGHT 

1921 
BY  JOSEPH  R.  WILSON 


OUHPTOK  ACCESSio* 

/4T77 
ttJfCftOFT  UBRABV 

IAN.  24.1938 


TO  MY  WIFE 


THE  f: A f'CRGFT  f-F  PEARY 
INDEX 

Page 

Brief  History  of  the  Famous  Santa  Fe  Trail 7 

The  Santa  Fe  Trail  12 

The  Blind  Beggar  of  Albuquerque 16 

Sunrise  From  "The  Alvarado"   18 

The  Lilacs  of  Shawmont 20 

A  Jolly  Fellow  is  the  Western  Tumbleweed  21 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona 21 

The  Melodies  of  Memories 22 

The     Harvey    House     Chimes    23 

Rest   24 

She  Gave  Me  Two  24 

The  Face  in  the  Moon  25 

In  Spirit  Land  25 

Life's  Treasures    25 

Juror  No.  3  26 

He  Who  Sits  in  the  Gloom 28 

Mi-Lady's  Shoe 28 

Beside  the  Sea   29 

Winter's  Sorrows 29 

Kisses 30 

Mystery 30 

Alma   Mater  "Pennsylvania"    31 

Napoleon's   Tomb    31 

The  Sorrows  Grim  Want  Imposes 32 

I  Would  I  Were  Still  a  Boy  33 

The  Same  Voice  34- 

Memories     34 

Old  Days  (a  Ballad) 35 

On  the  Engagement  of  Miss  Constance  "More" oo 

Oh,    Gondolier    36 

A  Proposal  36 

Lake  Geneva  (a  Memory)    37 

My  Boyhood's  Home  37 

The  Death  of  the  Host  of  the  Jolly  Swan 38 

Oh !  Tamaca  41 

One  Sweet  Moment  41 

Mine  Tonight    42 

The  Melody  of  Love 43 

(5) 


-\  I 


INDEX 


Page 

Wives    44 

A  Country  Romance  45 

Word  Wounds 47 

The  Gondolier's  Song 48 

Avaunt !  Ye  Tears   48 

The  Last  of  the  Tasmanians  49 

An  English  Lane   51 

Words   to    Mendelssohn's   "Consolation"    51 

A  Maiden  of  the  South  Pacific  52 

An  Actor's   Epitaph    53 

The  Loved  Ones  Left  Behind  53 

Life's  Voyage  in  Vain   54 

The  Song  of  the  Stream  55 

Dry  Thine  Eyes   56 

Honor  57 

Song  to  the  Moon  58 

To  My  Mother  59 

The  Unexpected  Summons  60 

Oh!  'Tis  Sweet  to  Live 60 

Too  Late!   64 

Song  of  Atilla   62 

Dreams  63 

Who  Looks  Beyond   67 

Ready  to  Die  68 

The  Soul  69 

Where   Life   Began    70 

The  Grandeur  of  Death 70 

The  Day  is  Done 71 

Death's  Courtship 71 

An  Appeal  to  Him   71 

A  Christmas  Carol   72 

Wilt  Thou  Lord  Stand  for  Me?  73 

My  Saviour  Understands    74 

Help   Us   Great   Friend    74 

Into  the  Valley  of  My  Soul  75 


BRIEF  HISTORY 

OF  THE 

FAMOUS  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 


The  early  history  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  which  runs 
parallel  with  the  Santa  Fe  Railroad  for  hundreds  of  miles, 
is  somewhat  obscured  by  mystery  and  tradition,  but  from 
historical  data  in  possession  of  the  Museum  of  New  Mexico, 
at  Santa  Fe,  it  can  be  stated  with  a  large  degree  of  accuracy 
that  the  trail  was  started  by  Spanish  explorers  three  hun 
dred  years  ago. 

The  first  known  expedition  by  Americans  over  the 
trail  was  made  by  the  Mallet  brothers,  who  arrived  in  Santa 
Fe,  July  22,  1739.  The  first  trader  to  follow  the  trail 
reached  Santa  Fe  in  1763.  It  was  not  until  1804  that 
LaLande,  a  trapper  and  hunter,  crossed  the  trail  and  made 
Santa  Fe  that  year.  Kit  Carson  was  one  of  those  who 
struck  the  trail  in  1826,  when  he  was  but  sixteen  years  of 
age. 

The  camping  stations  along  the  trail  at  that  time  were 
Diamond  Spring,  Lost  Spring,  Cottonwood  Creek,  Turkey 
Creek,  Cow  Creek  (now  Hutchinson,  Kansas),  and  further 
on  was  Pawnee  Rock,  a  famous  landmark  of  sandstone, 
twenty  feet  high. 

From  the  year  1820  many  caravans  made  their  way 
over  the  trail  to  Santa  Fe,  then,  as  it  is  to-day,  the  seat  of 
government.  It  was  here  in  the  old  palace  that  some  of 
the  early  governors  had  lived  in  a  semi-royal  state,  main- 

(7) 


8  BRIEF  HISTORY  OF  THE  FAMOUS  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 

taining  a  little  court  and  body-guards  whose  lives  were 
by  no  means  a  sinecure,  since  they  were  called  upon  to 
fight  the  Indians  on  many  occasions. 

These  Indians  developed  great  hostility  to  the  white 
man,  and  caravans  on  the  trail  were  so  frequently  attacked, 
and  so  many  tragedies  stained  the  trail  with  the  blood  of 
women  and  children,  that  in  1823,  Colonel  Viscarra,  Jefe 
Politicio,  of  New  Mexico,  commanded  a  battalion  of 
Mexican  troops  in  protecting  the  caravans  on  the  Santa  Fe 
trail.  His  hand-full  of  men,  and  the  predatory  and  blood 
thirsty  character  of  the  Indians,  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  protect  any  large  part  of  the  trail,  and  soldiers, 
traders  and  their  families  were  massacred  by  overwhelming 
numbers,  the  victims  including  many  women  and  children. 
The  members  of  one  caravan  met  their  fate  in  sight  of 
Santa  Fe,  forty-six  days  out  from  St.  Louis. 

Colonel  Viscarra  had  not  only  to  deal  with  one  tribe, 
but  many.  There  were  the  Navajos,  Pawnees,  Arapahos, 
Kiowas,  Comanche,  Apache  and  Cheyenee.  There  was 
only  one  tribe  friendly  to  the  traders,  and  that  was  the 
Pueblo  Indians. 

In  August,  1829,  a  particularly  vicious  attack  on  a 
caravan  on  the  Santa  Fe  trail,  bound  for  Santa  Fe,  caused 
the  traders  to  petition  the  government  for  military  protec 
tion,  and  as  a  result  this  year,  under  agreement  with 
the  Government  of  the  United  States  and  the  Republic  of 
Mexico,  four  companies  of  United  States  troops  guarded  the 
great  caravans  moving  from  Western  Missouri  to  Santa  Fe, 
as  far  as  the  Arkansas  River.  In  spite  of  this  protection, 
however,  attacks  by  Indians  were  a  common  occurrence, 


BRIEF  HISTORY  OF  THE  FAMOUS  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  9 

and  every  caravan  had  to  carry  arms  and  ammunition,  and 
vigilance  was  never  relaxed  from  the  time  they  left  the 
Arkansas  River  until  they  struck  the  plaza  at  Santa  Fe. 

Colonel  Viscarra,  a  handsome,  picturesque  Spaniard, 
always  mounted  on  a  mettlesome  thoroughbred,  was  prob 
ably  the  most  dashing  figure  in  the  history  of  the  Santa  Fe 
trail.  Tales  of  his  gallantry  and  daring  became  folklore 
among  the  traders,  pioneers  and  their  descendants. 

In  1843,  tne  American  traders  commenced  to  estab 
lish  regular  communication  between  Missouri  and  Santa 
Fe  and  in  1849,  started  to  run  a  stage  from  Independence, 
Mo.,  to  Santa  Fe.  The  fare  was  $250.  Each  passenger 
was  allowed  forty  pounds  of  baggage.  The  capacity  of 
the  coach  was  ten  passengers  in  addition  to  the  driver  and 
messenger.  Relays  of  horses  were  stationed  along  the 
trail  every  fifteen  to  twenty  miles. 

The  vehicles  used  by  the  traders  and  pioneers  were 
for  the  greater  part  Conestoga  wagons  drawn  by  horses 
or  mules.  As  they  proceeded  westward  it  was  a  com 
mon  sight  to  see  on  the  trail,  "creoles,  polished  gentlemen 
magnificently  clothed  in  Spanish  costume,  exiled  Spaniards 
escaping  from  Mexico,  and  richly  caparisoned  horses, 
mules  and  asses,  and  a  courtesy  of  the  road  grew  out  of 
a  common  danger". 

The  most  terrible  part  of  the  trail  was  the  great  plain 
between  the  Arkansas  River  and  Cimarron  Spring.  It  was 
over  three  thousand  feet  above  sea  level  and  sixty-three 
miles  without  a  water  course  or  pool.  The  soil  was  dry 
and  hard  and  short  buffalo  grass  and  some  cacti  were  the 
only  evidence  of  the  parched  vegetation.  There  was  not 


IO        BRIEF  HISTORY  OF  THE  FAMOUS  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 

a  shrub  or  tree  of  any  kind.  It  was  a  sandy  desert  plain 
and  it  was  here  the  traveler  saw  the  mirage,  a  beautiful 
lake  which  disappeared  as  he  approached  it. 

Breakdowns  on  this  plain  were  frequent,  and  the  In 
dians  most  dangerous.  Dry,  hot  weather  prevailed  with 
the  blue  sky  overhead,  and  over  these  parched  wastes  of 
the  desert,  exposed  to  attacks  by  Indians  both  night  and 
day,  the  caravans  finally  reached  Cimarron  Spring,  which 
was  in  a  small  ravine. 

After  leaving  Cimarron  Spring  (445  miles  from  In 
dependence,  Missouri),  the  caravans  struck  the  following 
camps : 

Willow  Bar; 

Cold  Spring; 

Rabbit  Ear  Creek, 

Round  Mound, 

Rock  Creek, 

Point  of  Rocks; 

Rio  Colorado; 

Ocate  Creek; 

Santa  Clara  Spring  (Wagon  Mound) ; 

Rio  Mora; 

Rio  Gallinas  (Las  Vegas) ; 

Ojo  De  Bernal  Spring; 

San  Miguel; 

Pecos  Village; 

and  finally  Santa  Fe,  a  distance  of  750  miles  from  Inde 
pendence,  Missouri,  the  starting  point. 

The  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  led  From  Franklin,  Missouri, 
through  Kansas,  Colorado,  Oklahoma  and  New  Mexico. 


BRIEF    HISTORY   OF   THE   SANTA    FE   TRAIL  II 

It  followed  the  Arkansas  River  to  Cimarron  Crossing  ( Fort 
Dodge)  to  La  Junta,  Colorado;  then  south,  crossing  the 
Raton  Pass,  joining  the  main  trail  at  Santa  Clara  Spring. 
The  passenger  looking  out  of  the  window  of  the  train 
on  the  Santa  Fe  Railroad  will  see  this  trail  running  for 
miles  parallel  with  the  track,  and  will  be  able  to  people  it 
with  the  historic  traditions  which  have  made  the  Santa  Fe 
Trail  one  of  the  most  romantic  and,  withal,  one  of  the  most 
tragic  national  highways  in  the  United  States. 

NOTE. — The  greater  part  of  the  information  given  in  this  brief 
history  is  taken  from  Twitchell  on  Leading  Facts  of  New  Mexico 
History. 


12  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL. 

There  are  meanings  on  the  trail, 
From  west  and  eastward  bounders, 
The   host  that's   passed   forever, 
That  shall  never  know  it  more; 
From  men  and  fragile  women, 
From  pioneers  and  traders, 
Whose  dying  word  was  "Never," 
Whose  pale  souls  went  on  before. 
And  its  ruts  flow  deep  with  tears 
For  the  countless  lowly  biers, 
Of  those  who  died  upon  it, 
In  the  agony  of  fears. 

Oh!  the  rumbling  caravan — 

The  women  under  cover, 

While  the  men  before  them  scan, 

For  Indians  or  water, 

For  the're  mounds  along  the  trail, 

It's  thousand  miles  of  stretches, 

Of  man,  and  child  and  mother, 

Fair  flowers  and  hardened  wretches; 

Where  the  sandstorms  blow  and  blow, 

And  obliterate  all  traces. 

Moving  twenty  miles  a  day, 
With  mules  and  horses  straining 
Through  the  deep  and  parching  sand, 
The  wagon  wheels  a-squeaking, 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  13 

With  the  hot  sun  beating  down 
On  whitened  bones  a  bleaching. 
Stretching  all  along  the  trail, 
From  Fort  Dodge  to  San  Miguel, 
From  caravans  forgotten, 
Where  none  lived  to  tell  the  tale. 

Oh!  the  tide  of  misery, 
And  tears   forever  flowing, 
From  the  women  folk  inside, 
Through  the  long,  dark  hours  of  night, 
Or  moonlight's  eerie  bleaches, 
Praying  God  to  send  the  light. 
The  grey  of  early  morning, 
While  a  rifle  shot  rings  out, 
The  Indians  are  coming, 
And  the  men  go  driving  on, 
The  tired  horses  running, 
For  the  goal  they  never  reach. 

Oh !  that  never  ending  trail, 
Through  canyon  and  arroya, 
And  that  cursed,  cruel  plain, 
The  parched  wastes  of  the  desert, 
A  mile  above  sea-level, 
Not  a  tree  or  shrub  upon  it, 
Without  a  drop  of  water, 
'Tween  the  Arkansas  river 
And  the  spring  at  Cimarron, 
Where  they'll  never  drink  again. 


14  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Pushing  on  to  Willow  Bar, 
Round  Mound  and  Rio  Moro, 
Through  buff'lo  grass  and  cacti, 
To  ruins  of  the  Pecos, 
With  the  blue  skies  overhead, 
And  the  horses  breathing  hard, 
Rolls  the  caravan  along. 
A  country  in  the  making, 
And  the  women  try  to  sing, 
God  bless  them,  they  are  helping, 
Those  tender  friends  of  man, 
To  keep  his  heart  from  breaking, 
With  the  wagon  broken  down, 
And  not  a  blade  for  grazing. 

There  are  ghosts  upon  the  trail, 
The  myriads  that  trod  it, 
And  they  pass  without  salute 
In  a  never  ending  line, 
In  wagon  and  on  horseback; 
Some  going  West,  some  Eastward. 
Strange  spectres  in  the  moonlight, 
Brave  men  and  noble  women, 
Young  girls  and  little  children, 
All  long  ago  forgotten. 

And  the  past  rolls  back  again, 
With  Indians  approaching, 
The  Navajos  and  Pawnees, 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  1 5 

Kiowas  and  Comanche, 
Creeping  closer  to  the  trail. 
The  children  and  the  women, 
Oh!  'tis  hard  that  they  should  die. 
Then  the  musket  shots  ring  out 
From  cool  men  bent  on  killing, 
Fighting  for  the  ones  they  love, 
Though  ten  to  one  outnumbered, 
Until  morning  tints  the  sky 
And  with  it  ends  the  combat. 

Then  the  town  of  Santa  Fe, 
Oh!  Father,  in  Thy  mercy — 
And  the  women  laugh  and  sing, 
The  tired  men  are  weeping, 
A  thousand  times  repeated, 
As  men  entered  Santa  Fe. 
The  cursed  trip  was  over, 
Save  to  those  left  on  the  way, 
The  pioneer  martyrs 
Of  the  trail  to  Santa  Fe. 


l6  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BLIND  BEGGAR  OF  ALBUQUERQUE 

There  are  faces  that  pass  in  a  moment, 

But  his  face  will  live  till  I  die. 

He'd  a  beard  and  blue  eyes  like  the  Saviour, 

At  least  like  the  face  we  all  know, 

And  we  met  in  the  cool  of  the  morning, 

We  met  about  two  years  ago. 

And  my  heart  bade  me  call  out  "Good  morning," 

"Good  morning,"  he  answered  to  me. 

But  I  saw  his  blue  eyes  looking  elsewhere, 

Like  one  who  was  trying  to  see. 

He  had  come  from  a  hut  without  windows, 

A  mud  hut  with  only  a  door, 

Yet  his  face  was  the  face  of  the  Saviour, 

And  I  fain  would  speak  to  him  more. 

So  I  stopped,  for  his  smile  had  a  sweetness 

That  entered  the  gates  of  my  soul ; 

I  was  hungry  to  know  where  it  came  from, 

That  I  might  its  wonders  extol. 

And  we  talked  of  the  beautiful  morning, 

The  scent  of  the  grass  and  the  flowers, 

And  he  spoke  like  a  man  of  refinement, 

Like  one  to  whom  knowledge  was  power, 

Of  the  glory  of  God  and  His  wonders, 

And  we  talked  for  more  than  an  hour. 

I  forgot  that  the  speaker  was  sightless, 

Or  a  mud  hut  his  dwelling  here. 

Could  it  be  he  was  just  a  blind  beggar? 

Was  a  greater  One  standing  near? 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  1 7 

And  he  talked  of  the  hills  in  their  grandeur, 

As  sentinels  watching  mankind, 

Of  the  plains  and  vales,  of  sunshine  and  flowers, 

Which  he  only  saw  in  his  mind. 

And  he  spoke  of  the  poor  and  the  lowly, 

Of  God's  mercy  to  such  as  he, 

Of  his  gratitude  to  his  Creator, 

Gratitude,  though  he  could  not  see. 

And  I  stretched  out  my  arms  to  that  beggar, 

From  Syria,  over  the  sea, 

With  the  beard  and  the  eyes  of  our  Saviour — 

At  least  they  looked  like  that  to  me. 

He  had  taught  me  a  wonderful  lesson, 

The  burden  a  Christian  could  bear, 

Who  from  out  the  dark  caverns  of  blindness 

Saw  only  the  things  that  were  fair. 

And  I  asked  my  dear  Father  forgiveness, 

My  fetters  of  sin  to  unbind, 

That  he'd  make  me  to  see  like  that  beggar, 

For  I  was  the  one  who  was  blind. 


1 8  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SUNRISE  FROM  THE  ALVARADO  HOTEL, 
ALBUQUERQUE,  NEW  MEXICO. 

"The  Alvarado,"  on  the  Santa  Fe, 
Here  oft  my  eyes  have  met  the  break  of  day; 
The  red  sun  rising  through  the  morning  mist, 
Over  the  mountains,  and  the  mesa  kissed, 
Down  to  the  valley,  where  the  shadows  deep 
Dissolved,  and  woke  the  city  from  its  sleep. 

Facing  the  East,  the  first  faint  streak  of  dawn 
Sought  my  closed  eyes  and  ope'd  them  to  the  morn. 
Then  like  the  passing  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Revealed  the  world  beneath  the  lifted  shroud, 
The  glories  of  the  proud  Sandia  Range, 
Whose  rugged  grandeur  God  alone  can  change. 

Sweet  was  the  air  that  in  my  casement  swept, 
And  in  the  court  below  a  fountain  leap't, 
Which  on  the  harp  of  life  sweet  music  made, 
And  soothed  me  in  my  slumbers  as  it  played. 
The  songs  of  gentle  rain,  of  woodland  stream, 
Entranced  me  nightly  in  a  murmuring  dream. 

The  doves  upon  the  roof  made  music  too, 
And  sweet  it  was  to  hear  them  bill  and  coo. 
Into  my  open  window  Nature  smiled, 
And  all  the  world  seemed  pure  and  undefiled. 
Naught  can  describe  those  joys  of  early  morn, 
When  from  the  night  another  day  was  born. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  cares  that  come  oppress  and  burden  me, 

I'll  pray  to  God  to  send  me  memory, 

Where  precious  moments  came  at  break  of  day, 

"The  Alvarado"  on  the  Santa  Fe. 

Thither  my  soul  shall  fly  where'er  I  be, 

And  bring  that  joy  of  morning  back  to  me. 


2O  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  LILACS  OF  SHAWMONT. 

In  our  home  in  the  West,  on  the  edge  of  the  mesa, 

When  our  day's  work  is  done,  and  the  voices  are  still, 

Comes  faintly  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  of  Shawmont 
We  knew  in  our  youth,  at  the  house  on  the  hill. 

Back  to  those  halls,  now  so  silent  and  empty, 
Where  voices  of  children  once  merrily  rang; 

To  those  dear  dead  windows  still  facing  the  garden, 
Where  the  woodthrush,  the  robin  and  oriole  sang. 

Back  to  the  solemn  old  bell  in  the  tree  forks, 

Which  summoned  us  home  to  the  noonday  repast; 

Whose  music  had  rung  in  the  morning  of  centuries, 
And  yet  was  as  sweet  as  the  day  it  was  cast. 

From  our  home  on  the  mesa  we  still  hear  it  calling, 

Long,  long  is  the  journey,  o'er  mountain  and  plain; 

But  it's  only  in  memory — past  to  the  present — 
And  only  in  fancy  we  hear  it  again. 

The  scent  of  the  lilacs,  the  voices  of  children; 

The  chirp  of  the  tree-toad,  the  song  of  the  stream; 
The  path  through  the  woods,  where  as  lovers  we  wandered, 

Confusingly  call  like  a  voice  in  a  dream. 

Call  to  us  here  in  our  home  on  the  mesa, 

From  out  the  dear  past  in  the  house  on  the  hill, 

And  in  fancy  we  dwell  in  the  home  by  the  Schuylkill, 

When  our  day's  work  is  done  and  the  voices  are  still. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  21 


A  JOLLY  FELLOW  IS  THE  WESTERN 
TUMBLEWEED. 

Oh!  what  a  jolly  fellow  is  the  western  tumbleweed, 
As  he  rolls  across  the  mesa  with  the  breeze; 
He'll  even  try  to  race  a  train,  no  matter  what  it's  speed, 
You  can  see  him  from  the  window  jump  the  trees. 

Just  where  the  fellow's  bound  for  it's  a  little  hard  to  say, 
For  his  heart  seems  full  of  joyousness  and  life, 
As  he  capers  like  a  schoolboy  out  for  a  holiday — 
Some  say  the  beggar's  looking  for  a  wife. 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  OF  ARIZONA. 

Methought  'twas  God,  Himself, 

For  as  I  reached  the  "El  Tovar" 

And  passed  toward  the  Canyon's  brink, 

I  seemed  to  stand  upon  the  bar 

Of  Heaven — too  dazed  to  think. 


22  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  MELODIES  OF  MEMORIES. 

The  melodies  of  every  clime 

Ring  out  so  true  and  sweet, 

They  make  the  world  akin  in  song, 

Bring  joy  with  every  beat. 

They  breathe  the  incense  of  the  morn, 

The  fragrance  of  the  night, 

They  weave  the  mystery  of  love, 

In  garlands  of  delight. 

Oh!  sweet  uplifting  melodies, 

That  soothe  the  human  soul; 

The  young  and  old,  the  rich,  the  poor, 

Are  one  'neath  their  control. 

The  melodies  of  younger  days, 

The  sweetest  ever  sung, 

The  melodies  of  memories 

That  make  the  ages  young. 

Oh!  crowd  us,  blessed  melodies, 

Come  to  us  one  by  one; 

Bring  back  the  tender  thoughts  of  life, 

When  it  had  scarce  begun. 

And  in  one  long,  delicious  dream 

We  live  the  past  again, 

In  melodies  of  memories, 

In  happiness  and  pain. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  23 


THE  HARVEY  HOUSE  CHIMES  ON  THE 
SANTA  FE  RAILROAD. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight!" 
Better  hurry — do  not  be  late. 
Best  of  food  is  on  the  table, 
Eat  as  much  as  you  are  able — 
i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  8. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight!" 
A  welcome  waits  at  every  plate. 
Shining  silver,   spotless  linen, 
Waitresses,  all  pretty  women — 
i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  8. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight!" 
Ascending  sweet  from  one  to  eight, 
Descending  just  as  sweet  to  one — 
The  chimes  have  stopp'd,  the  meal's  begun. 


24  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


REST. 

The  golden  sun  is  setting  in  the  quiet,  silent  West, 
The  feathered  songster's  voice  is  hushed  within  its 

cozy  nest, 
And  the  evening  breeze  comes  stealing  o'er  the 

fields  of  new-mown  hay, 
As  Phoebus  folds  his  wings  and  bids  farewell  the 

dying  day. 

The  gloaming  shadows  thicken  'round  the  house 

beneath  the  hill, 
The  water  ripples   softly  'neath  the  wheel  that 

works  the  mill; 
Then  over  all  comes  darkness,  and  the  landscape 

fades  from  sight, 
And  tired  Nature  sinks  to  rest  within  the  silent 

night. 


SHE  GAVE  ME  TWO. 

In  childhood  days  I  met  a  little  Miss, 
Whose  pouting  lips  were  luscious  as  the  dew. 
I  begged  that  she  would  give  me  just  one  kiss — 
She  gave  me  two. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  25 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  MOON. 

One  night  I  gazed  with  rapture  on  the  moon, 
And  there  I  found  surcease  from  all  my  cares. 
The  face  I  saw  within,  it  was  not  his — 
Twas  hers. 


IN  SPIRIT  LAND. 

In  spirit  land,  I  know  not  where, 

I  only  know  she  comes  to  me 

In  memory — 

When  I  was  young  and  she  was  fair. 


LIFE'S  TREASURES. 

It  matters  not 
How  great  our  treasures, 
The  cares  of  life 
Outweigh  its  pleasures. 


26  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


JUROR  NO.  3. 

Two  boys  were  up  for  burglary,  and  crowded  was  the 
Court, 

With  half  the  town  of  Elkington,  who  came  to  see  the 
sport. 

For  well  they  knew  the  Judge,  whose  heart  was  harder 
than  a  stone, 

Who  only  dealt  in  justice — to  whom  mercy  was  unknown. 

Oh !  what  a  wondrous  judge  he  was,  no  guilty  e'er  got  free, 

His  instinct  read  between  the  lines  what  no  one  else  could 
see, 

And  these  two  boys  on  whom  he  gazed  with  comprehen 
sive  stare, 

Raised  not  their  eyes  to  his  stern  face,  for  mercy  was  not 
there. 

"No  counsel,  Judge,"  the  prosecutor  said  in  careless  way; 
A  case  was  just  a  case  to  him,  who  tried  them  every  day. 
"We'll  see  to  it,"  the  Judge  replied,  as  often  times  before 
He  had  imposed  the  maximum — the  law  allowed  no  more. 
The  case  was  called,  the  jury  boxed,  when  Juror  No.  3 
Said,  "Judge,  they  have  no  counsel,  and  it  seems  unfair 

to  me. 
The  Commonwealth  has  two  shrewd  men."     The  Judge 

replied,  "What  two?" 

And  Juror  No.  3  came  back,  "Why,  Mr.  Todd  and  you." 
"Let  me  correct  you,"  said  the  Judge,  amid  the  courtroom 

din; 
"The  Court  administers  the  law  when  all  the  facts  are  in." 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  2/ 

Then  turning  to  the  crier  he  said,  "Keep  order  in  the  Court; 
Now  Mr.  Todd,  begin  the  case,  the  time  is  getting  short/' 
Just  then  a  woman's  helpless  cry  fell  on  the  Judge's  ear, 
And  both  the  lads  within  the  dock  were  seen  to  shed  a  tear. 
And  Juror  No.  3  stood  up  and  said,  "Where  is  the  friend? 
I  call  on  Thee,  Lord  Jesus,  the  prisoners  to  defend." 

The  Judge  sat  upright  on  the  bench,  a  greater  One  than  he 
Was  in  the  court  to  help  the  lads,  summoned  by  Juror  3. 
The  case  was  tried  and  verdict  found,  "Guilty"  the  fore 
man  said, 
And  not  a  juror  disagreed — the  Judge  bowed  low  his  head. 

Then  to  the  bar  there  came  the  man,  whose  house  the  lads 
had  robbed. 

Gazing  on  Juror  No.  3,  "Forgive  them,  Judge,"  he  sobbed. 

"I  forgive  them  as  Our  Master  would,  as  I  hope  He'll  par 
don  me." 

And  the  light  on  the  face  of  Juror  3  was  wonderful  to  see. 

And  all  eyes  turned  upon  the  bench ;  what  would  that  stern 

Judge  do? 

His  face  was  soft  as  baby's  smile ;  he  had  been  born  anew. 
"You  have  sinned,  my  lads;  go,  sin  no  more!"     Then  he 

set  them  free, 
And  who  shall  say  that  Jesus  was  not  Juror  No.  3  ? 


28  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


HE  WHO  SITS  IN  THE  GLOOM. 

Not  a  day  goes  by,  but  I  read  somewhere 

In  this  wonderful  world  of  ours, 
That  some  lowly  being  has  raised  his  soul 

And  become  as  the  Norman  towers. 
From  out  of  the  sweat  and  the  slavish  grind, 

From  the  depths  where  but  hope  is  known, 
There  has  risen  a  star,  serene  and  pure, 

That  reacheth  the  Heavenly  throne. 

And  no  one  knoweth  his  neighbor's  lot, 

Or  divineth  the  Father's  will, 
For  he  who  sits  in  the  gloom  tonight 

May  tomorrow  walk  on  the  hill; 
For  swift  as  the  flash  of  a  falcon's  wing, 

In  the  gloaming  homeward  flight, 
Comes  the  change  that  lifteth  the  downcast  up, 

And  the  darkness  turns  to  light. 

MI-LADY'S  SHOE. 

I  only  know  you  by  the  crease 

And  dents  across  your  dainty  shoe. 

And  yet  there's  something  in  that  crease — 

YOU! 

A  fairy  phantom  of  the  mind, 
Above  thy  shoe  a  form  I  see, 
Another  worships  at  thy  shrine — 
ME! 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  29 


BESIDE  THE  SEA. 

Beside  the  sea,  beside  the  sea, 
I  seemed  to  hear  my  mother's  voice. 
She  had  been  sleeping  twenty  years, 
And  yet  her  voice  came  back  to  me, 
Beside  the  sea,  beside  the  sea. 


WINTER'S  SORROWS. 

There's  a  bitterness  and  sorrow  in  the  Winter's  leaden  air, 
A  chilling  sort  of  something  that's  akin  to  human  care, 
A  tender  gray  of  sadness,  like  a  voice  of  bygone  gladness, 
In  the  ashen  sombre  atmosphere  that  lingers  everywhere. 

There  are  tear-drops  on  the  eyelid,  in  the  Winter's  leaden 

air, 

A  sympathetic  chord  is  touched  that  finds  expression  there ; 
Reality  seems  clearer,  and  the  end  of  all  seems  nearer, 
In  the  sober,  flinty  ether,  supernaturally  bare. 


3O  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


KISSES. 

Kisses  sweet  behind  the  door — 
She  was  three  and  I  was  four ; 
Kisses  still  are  sweet  to  me, 
Though  she  now  is  fifty- three. 

Kisses  sweet  behind  the  door — 
I  was  three  and  he  was  four; 
Kisses  still  are  sweet  to  me, 
Though  he  is  more  than  fifty- three. 


MYSTERY. 

From  out  the  caverns  of  mysterious  thought 

Appeared  a  form  who  said,  "I'm  Memory." 

"Go  back!"  cried  I,  "I  care  not  for  the  past, 

Send  me  the  form  who  knows  what's  yet  to  be." 

A  shadow  rose  and  said,  "You  call,  I'm  here; 

Thy  future  leads  thee  to  the  Stygian  shore, 
And  none  shall  weep  for  thee  a  single  tear." 

"Avaunt!"  I  cried,  "I  will  not  hear  thee  more." 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  3! 


ALMA  MATER  "PENNSYLVANIA." 

I  see  thee,  dear  "Old  Penn,"  in  silhouette, 
Far  back  along  the  road  on  which  I  came; 
And  memories,  fragrant  as  the  violet, 
Are  interwoven  with  thine  honored  name. 

I've  thrilled  at  "Harvard"  and  at  good  old  "Yale," 
Proud  have  I  been  to  meet  their  doughty  men, 
But  in  the  world  there's  just  one  nightingale — 
My  Alma  Mater,  my  own  honored  "Penn." 


NAPOLEON'S  TOMB. 

Here  pause  and  gaze,  ye  travelers  young  and  old, 
On  this  dull  marble  hewn  in  sacred  mould, 
Mark  that  inscription  on  the  graven  stone, 
Within  sleeps  he,  who  stood  'mongst  men  alone. 

Within  sleeps  he  who  at  Marengo  fought, 
Whose  skill  and  courage  set  his  foes  at  naught; 
Who  led  his  men  beneath  th'  Egyptian  Sun, 
Scarce  fought  a  battle,  but  the  day  he  won. 

Who,  living,  loved  the  cannon's  deadly  roar, 
And  made  his  trumpets  heard  on  every  shore; 
Who,  with  his  eagle  banner,  never  furled, 
His  conquering  legions  over-ran  the  world. 


32  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Proud  Austria  humbled  lay  beneath  his  feet, 
And  Russia's  legions  fled  in  swift  retreat; 
He  saw  the  world,  ambition  swelled  his  heart, 
He  longed  for  all,  nor  cared  to  have  a  part. 

So  lost  he  all,  insatiate  from  the  first, 
When  his  proud  deeds  like  fire  on  Europe  burst. 
A  soldier,  statesman,  Emperor,  toute  chose  King, 
Before  nor  since  has  lived  so  grand  a  thing. 

He  died  in  exile  from  his  glorious  France, 
On  lonely  isle,  his  life  a  leaden  trance; 
The  sea  around,  walled  in  on  every  side, 
His  proud  heart  broke,  and  so  the  hero  died. 

Within  this  marble  rest  the  mummied  bones 
Of  him  who  held  in  life  a  dozen  thrones ; 
Approach  with  awe  and  reverential  tread, 
Here  sleeps  the  mightiest  of  the  living — dead. 


THE  SORROWS  GRIM  WANT  IMPOSES. 

'Neath  the  sorrows  that  grim  want  imposes, 
Imperious  stalks  decay; 
Hunger's  terrors  have  withered  the  roses 
That  bloomed  and  then  faded  away. 

The  hearts  which  with  young  life  once  budded, 
The  fond  hopes  which  happiness  kissed, 
Are  dissolved  in  the  tears  which  have  flooded 
The  homes  of  the  poor  in  our  midst. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  33 


I  WOULD  I  WERE  STILL  A  BOY. 

Oh!  joy,  for  a  fancied  rest 
Instead  of  this  grind,  a  toy. 
God  seems  to  know  what  is  best, 
But  would  I  were  still  a  boy. 

Oh!  man,  and  a  heartsick  smile, 
Has  something  gone  wrong  ahead? 
Why!  life  is  scarcely  worth  while, 
If  man  can  wish  himself  dead. 

Oh!  well,  poor  fellow,  I  know 
Some  have  it  better  than  you. 
But,  man!  wherever  you  go, 
The  satisfied  are  the  few. 

Go  seek  ye,  and  ye  shall  find 
The  light  of  eternal  joy. 
When  Faith  once  enters  the  mind, 
Again  you  will  be  a  boy. 


34  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  SAME  VOICE. 

The  same  voice  speaks  as  the  days  of  eld, 
Since  the  human  race  began, 
Enmeshed  in  the  woof  and  weave  of  life, 
Designed  in  the  form  of  man. 

It  spoke  the  dawn  of  his  natal  day, 

It  is  speaking  today  as  then, 

The  voice  that  speaks  is  the  voice  of  God, 

From  out  of  the  mouths  of  men. 


MEMORIES. 

The  fragrance  of  a  cigarette, 
The  incense  of  a  morning  fair; 
The  odor  of  the  mignonette, 
The  perfume  of  a  woman's  hair, 
The  sunset  dancing  on  the  sea, 
White  holies  of  cirrus  in  the  sky, 
Bring  back  fond  memories  to  me. 
Ask  not!     I  cannot  tell  you  why. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  35 

OLD  DAYS. 
A  BALLAD. 

She  stood  by  the  stile  in  the  twilight  dim, 

With  a  soft  look  in  her  eye; 
'Twas  a  tryst,  she  waited  alone  for  him, 
Her  lover,  a  warrior  bold  and  grim, 

'Neath  that  beauteous  evening  sky. 

"Why  tarries  my  lord  ?"  quoth  the  maiden  fair, 

"My  love,  my  love,  come  to  me!" 
In  her  eyes  came  a  look  so  sweet  and  rare, 
As  she  gazed  to  the  wood,  through  the  scented  air, 
Till  her  eyes  could  no  longer  see. 

Still  she  waited  there  for  her  warrior  bold, 

"He  will  come  to-night!"  said  she. 
Then  up  rode  a  knight  in  armor  of  gold: 
"Your  warrior  died  like  a  knight  of  old, 
On  the  battlefield,"  said  he. 


36  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ON  THE  ENGAGEMENT  OF  MISS   CONSTANCE 

MORE. 

Thou  hast  the  wit  and  charming  grace 
To  match  with  speech  thy  lovely  face — 
A  maid  whom  men  adore. 
Yet  I  do  prophesy  this  night, 
Before  the  dawn  of  next  year's  light 
That  thou  wilt  be  no  "More." 


OH,  GONDOLIER. 

Oh,  Gondolier,  turn  thy  boat  again, 

That  I  may  see  the  sunlight  on  its  prow, 

The  light  that  I  have  tried  to  paint  in  vain, 

The  light  of  Heaven — there!  'tis  shimmering  now. 


A  PROPOSAL. 

Let  us  go  a-maying,  love; 
All  the  world  is  playing,  love, 
This  God-sent  happy  day. 
Let  us  be  together,  love, 
Ever  and  forever,  love, 
Forever  and  for  aye. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  37 


LAKE  GENEVA— A  MEMORY. 

I  sat  beside  her  in  the  gloaming  light, 

And  neither  spoke — 'twas  by  Geneva's  lake. 

We  sat,  and  neither  spoke,  and  then  came  Night. 


MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME. 

Oh,  many  a  time  in  the  silent  night 
I  sigh  for  the  days  gone  by, 
When  a  happy  boy  with  gay  delight 
I  hailed  the  cuckoo's  cry. 

And  the  dear  old  woods  that  I  loved  so  well, 
Where  the  stock-dove  built  its  nest; 
The  rippling  stream  and  the  hermit's  cell, 
Its  green  and  shady  crest. 

The  stately  home  'neath  the  elms  so  tall, 
The  lawn  with  its  cool  bright  turf; 
The  old  peach  tree  by  the  garden  wall, 
Each  has  its  own  sweet  worth. 

For  my  head  is  bent  with  the  weight  of  years, 
As  white  as  the  falling  snow; 
My  stream  of  life  through  this  vale  of  tears 
Will  soon  have  ceased  to  flow. 


38  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  HOST  OF  THE  JOLLY  SWAN 

The  pewter  pots  were  shining  on  the  shelves  behind  the  bar, 
Like  the  gold  and  silver  lining  of  a  sunset  cloud  afar, 
And  the  pine  log  fire  burned  brightly  with  its  blaze  of  light 

and  heat, 
Athwart  the  untrodden  sawdust  floor  that  looked  so  clean 

and  neat. 

A  cheerful,  ruddy  glamor  lighted  up  the  tavern  walls, 
And,  shooting  through  the  open  door,  lit  up  the  silent  halls, 
To  where  the  old  clock's  pendulum  swung  slowly  to  and  fro, 
With  measured  beat,  that  seemed  to  speak  of  the  days  of 
long  ago. 

Sick  unto  death — in  the  room  above — lay  the  host  of  the 

Jolly  Swan. 

And  far  and  near,  his  kinsmen  had,  to  seek  the  doctors,  gone, 
For  the  jovial  face  and  the  merry  laugh  of  the  host  of 

yesterday 
Had  all  departed,  leaving  naught  but  the  mould  of  the 

living  clay. 

Alone  in  his  chamber  he  watched  the  sun  slope  down  to 

his  Western  bower, 
And  a  gentle  smile  stole  o'er  his  face,  as  the  old  clock 

chimed  the  hour. 
His  thoughts  were  of  the  days  gone  by — as  the  host  of  the 

Jolly  Swan, 
He  had  raised  his  tankard  high  and  drank  to  the  health 

of  the  old  friends  gone. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  39 

There  was  good  old  Squire  Thornleigh,  with  his  great  big 
raw-boned  gray, 

And  the  biggest  hearted  fellow  that  e'er  waved  the  "Hark ! 
Away!" 

There  was  Jones,  the  hunting  parson,  with  his  jovial,  ring 
ing  laugh, 

Who  could  preach  a  right  good  sermon  and  an  honest 
bumper  quaff. 

Then  there  was  Billy  Foster,  who  was  only  twenty-two, 
When  he  broke  his  neck  in  the  hunting  field  through  the 

casting  of  a  shoe. 

And  portly  old  Judge  Horner,  who  in  the  room  below, 
Had  smoked  and  drank  full  many  a  night  in  the  days  of 

long  ago. 

And  as  he  thought,  the  window  ope'd,  and  in  slipped  Hunts 
man  Death, 

Arrayed  in  scarlet,  white-topped  boots,  with  a  fine  rich 
malty  breath. 

"Ah !  good  old  friend,"  the  huntsman  cried,  "since  you  have 
called  me  here, 

Get  down  the  pewter  pots  that  we  may  drink  a  funeral  bier — 

For  I  have  ridden  hard  today  to  reach  the  Swan  this  night, 
And  what  I  ask  is  nothing  more  than  what  is  only  right." 
With  that,  the  host  got  out  of  bed  and  brought  two  pewters 

brimmed, 
And  while  below  he  saw  that  all  the  tavern  lights  were 

trimmed. 


4O  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

His  kinsman,  riding  up  the  road,  with  doctors  from  afar, 
Reined  up  to  watch  the  lights  that  burned  so  brightly  in 

the  bar; 

While  the  jolly  host  with  Death  alone  sat  in  the  room  above, 
And  drank  the  foaming  liquor  down,  his  first  and  only  love. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  the  sick  man  heard 

without, 
And  he  and  Death,  in  one  glad  breath,  sent  up  a  hunting 

shout —  * 

"It's  bold  Squire  Thornleigh's  raw-boned  gray,  or  Parson 

Jones's  bay — 
I'm    coming,    Squire,    Yoick's   tally-ho!"    Death    shouted, 

"Hark!  Away!" 

Yoick's  tally-ho  fills  loud  the  room  as  he  springs  up  from 

bed, 
And  the  bugle  horn  sounds  merrily  in  the  chamber  of  the 

dead; 
Gay  prancing  steeds  and  huntsmen  bold  ride  blithely  by 

his  side, 
"Yoicks!  tally-ho!"  rang  from  his  lips,  and  back  he  fell 

and  died. 

His  kinsmen  heard  that  hunting  shout,  that  old  familiar 

cry, 
And  in  they  rushed — too  late — too  late — to  see  the  good 

man  die. 
Two  empty  tankards  on  the  floor  was  all  that  they  could 

see, 
And  how  the  host  of  the  Jolly  Swan  died — is  still  a  mystery. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  4! 


OH!  TAMACA. 

Oh!  Tamaca,  oh!  Tamaca, 

I  see  thy  face, 

I  see  thy  face. 

The  sea  is  rolling  on  the  bar, 

Low  hang  the  clouds,  afar,  afar, 

Thy  skiff  bounds  swiftly  in  the  race, 

Tis  death  that  leads  thee,  Tamaca. 


ONE  SWEET  MOMENT. 

Under  the  lindens  we  wandered, 

Gaily  my  love  and  I; 

Light  through  the  shimmering  leaflets 

Fell  like  a  kiss  from  the  sky. 

On  to  her  soft,  golden  tresses, 

Into  her  eyes  divine, 

Smothered  her  form  with  caresses, 

Blended  her  shadow  with  mine. 

Under  the  lindens  we  wandered; 

Fifty  years  had  gone  by; 

Light  through  the  cold,  naked  branches 

Fell  like  a  pall  from  the  sky. 

Old  and  forsaken,  our  children 

Had  left  us  to  starve  and  to  die; 

But  we  lived  in  the  past  one  sweet  moment 

'Neath  the  lindens,  my  love  and  I. 


42  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MINE  TONIGHT. 

Mine  to-night, 

For  tomorrow's  light 

Our  dream  will  end,  and  waking  bring  dull  pain. 

Oh!  the  happy  past, 

Far  too  sweet  to  last, 

For  'tis  decreed  we  shall  not  meet  again. 

In  thy  dear  eyes 

My  heaven  lies, 

And  yet  forever  I  must  say  good-bye; 

With  your  lips  to  mine, 

And  my  heart  to  thine, 

With  this  last  embrace  would  God  I  could  die. 


THE  SANTE  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  43 


THE  MELODY  OF  LOVE. 

Oh!  breathe  again  thine  answer  to  the  stars. 
The  woodbine  turns  to  listen  to  thy  voice; 
The  subtle  beauty  of  such  love  as  ours 
Makes  every  living  thing  rejoice. 
Blending  sweet  heaven  with  our  earthly  love, 
Locked  in  each  other's  arms,  our  prayers  to  God 
Rise  from  our  souls  unto  his  throne  above 
In  gratitude,  sweet  gratitude  to  Him. 

Oh !  breathe  again  thine  answer  to  the  stars. 

The  nightingale  doth  listen  in  the  grove 

To  music  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  flowers, 

Unto  the  melody  of  love. 

Holy  as  triumphs  of  an  angel  hand, 

Strained  heart  to  heart,  for  love  is  God's  command, 

Mute  in  the  fulness  of  our  joy,  we  stand 

In  gratitude,  sweet  gratitude  to  Him. 


44  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WIVES. 

We  were  alone — my  wife  and  I — 
God  from  above  looked  down  on  us, 
Never  a  word  did  either  speak, 
Dry  lay  the  salt  from  the  tears  on  her  cheek, 
Joy  was  afar  from  us. 

Silence  held  sway,  the  sin  was  mine, 
Pride  was  my  sin — alas!  for  me, 
Pride  that  strangled  the  man  within, 
That  silenced  the  truth  and  increased  my  sin, 
She  had  done  naught  to  me. 

Someone's  speaking.     Who  dares  intrude? 
Reckless  being,  away  from  here. 
"Reckless"— that  little  form  in  white? 
Clinging  to  her,  crying  "Mother,  good  night !" 
Low  hung  my  head  in  shame. 

"Mother,"  I  cried,  "can  you  forgive?" 
With  faltering  step  I  went  to  her, 
And  never  a  word  did  mother  speak, 
But  the  salt  grew  wet  on  her  glowing  cheek, 
And  joy  came  back  to  us. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  45 


A  COUNTRY  ROMANCE. 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine, 

Little  Miss? 

For  this  fairy-like  retreat 
In  the  country  fresh  and  sweet, 
Is  what  I've  longed  to  meet, 

Little  Miss. 

Yes,  I  came  here  from  the  town, 

Little  Miss; 

Without  an  aim  in  view, 
I  have  roved  the  country  through, 
And  by  chance  I've  met  with  you, 

Little  Miss.  % 

You  were  born  upon  the  farm, 

Little  Miss? 

Why,  how  happy  you  must  be 
In  the  country  pure  and  free! 
I  am  filled  with  ecstasy, 

Little  Miss. 

Do  I  like  the  city  belles, 

Little  Miss? 

Well!  some  I  do,  and  yet, 
Why  you  needn't  pout  and  fret, 
For  I  am  still  to  let, 

Little  Miss. 


46  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  am  longing  for  a  kiss, 

Little  Miss. 

Yes,  I'm  asking  with  my  eyes 
In  a  tongue  that  never  lies, 
And  in  words  I  can't  disguise, 

Little  Miss. 

Oh !  is  what  I  say  quite  true, 

Little  Miss? 

Ah !  Why  should  Phyllis  doubt 
With  that  pretty  little  pout? 
I  know  what  I'm  about, 

Little  Miss. 

Now  what  age  am  I,  you  ask, 

Little  Miss? 

Well,  I've  just  turned  twenty-two, 
And  I'd  like  to  marry  you. 


Now,  I'm  married.     Ah!    Who  to? 
That  little  Miss. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  47 


WORD  WOUNDS. 

Though  strong  emotion  sweeps  the  heart, 
Though  anguish  wings  the  brow, 

Hold  back  the  words  whose  cruel  smart 
Hurts  no  one  worse  than  thou. 

Pause,  pause  until  the  morrow  brings 
Reflection,  thoughts  more  kind, 

Then  from  calm  reason's  crystal  springs 
Distill  from  out  thy  mind. 

A  wound  received  from  warrior's  sword 

May  heal  within  a  day, 
But  the  wound  of  some  light,  thoughtless  word 

May  be  a  wound  for  aye. 


48  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  GONDOLIER'S  SONG. 
(From  "Lionardo,  the  Gondolier.") 

Goodnight,  my  love,  a  fond  goodnight, 
The  moon  shines  down  on  thee." 
But  soon  that  cloud  shall  hide  its  light, 
And  thy  dear  face  from  me, 
And  thy  dear  face  from  me. 

Goodnight  again,  my  beauteous  flower, 
Farewell,  my  gentle  dove; 
The  night  speeds  on,  'tis  now  the  hour 
When  we  must  part,  my  love — 
When  we  must  part,  my  love. 

Sleep,  softly  sleep,  luxurious  rest, 
Sweet  dreams,  dear  love,  be  thine. 
May  each  unconscious  thought  be  blest 
With  love,  sweet  love  of  mine — 
Goodnight,  sweet  love  of  mine. 


AVAUNT!  YE  TEARS. 

Avaunt!  ye  tears,  'tis  not  the  soul 
That  crumbles  'neath  the  grassy  sod. 
Now  dost  thou  learn  how  vain  to  weep, 
When  death  means,  "God"? 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  49 


THE  LAST   OF  THE  TASMANIANS. 

Tasmania,  a  large,  beautiful  island  to  the  southeast  of  Australia, 
when  discovered  by  Van  Dieman,  was  peopled  with  a  magnificent  race 
of  savages,  resembling  somewhat  the  American  Indian.  Civilization, 
with  its  attendant  advantages  and  evils,  proved  too  much  for  the  primi 
tive  child  of  the  forest.  The  last  Tasmanian,  a  woman,  died  in  1885, 
and  the  once  splendid  race  is  now  extinct. 


PROLOGUE. 

Alone  she  sits,  nor  marks  the  dying  day. 
Alone  on  earth,  she  bows  her  weary  head, 
And  dusky  spirits  bear  her  soul  away; 
A  race  extinct.     The  last  Tasmanian  dead. 

APOSTROPHE. 

Where  are  thy  dark  sons,  Tasmania,  Tasmania? 
Where  are  the  lords  who  once  swayed  o'er  thy  shore? 
Gone  to  their  fathers;  Oh!  weep  ye,  Tasmania, 
Weep  for  the  race  thou  shalt  see  never  more. 

Weep  for  the  race  on  thy  fair  bosom  nourished, 
Tutored  by  nature,  untrammeled,  so  free; 
Kings  of  thy  green  hills  and  valleys  they  flourished, 
Kings  who  now  sleep  in  their  graves  by  the  sea. 

Proud  were  the  race  who  knew  not  their  beginning, 
To  whom  the  long  past  was  as  sealed  as  their  fate, 
Who  counted  their  seasons  when  insects  were  winging, 
The  time  by  the  shadows,  the  suns  for  their  date. 


5O  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Skilled  were  thy  dark  sons,  Tasmania !  Tasmania ! 
Virtuous,  gentle  and  peaceful  their  ways; 
Till  civilization  overtook  thee,  Tasmania, 
And  civilized  habits  renumbered  their  days. 

Set  is  the  sun  of  thy  people,  Oh,  country! 
Strangers  now  trample  unawed  o'er  they  race; 
Forgotten,  the  dusky-hued  sons  that  a  century 
Past  were  the  monarchs  of  all  thy  sweet  place. 

Soft  may  they  sleep  by  thy  shores,  Oh !  Tasmania, 
Where  sea-dirges  swell  for  the  child  of  the  past; 
Sleep  as  thy  guardian  spirits,  Tasmania, 
Hovering  round  they  dear  land  to  the  last. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  5! 


AN  ENGLISH  LANE. 

Tall  elms  on  either  side  with  stately  heads, 
With  here  and  there  an  oak  of  ancient  days, 
Sweet  briar  hedges  flanked  with  clover  beds, 
In  which  the  feathered  songster  trills  his  lays. 


WORDS  TO  MENDELSSOHN'S  "CONSOLATION." 

Lord,  my  poor  heart,  with  sadness  now  is  breaking, 
Longing  for  light,  that  I  may  find  belief, 
Aching  for  rest  from  these  tumultuous  doubtings, 
Seeking  to  find  the  path  that  leads  to  peace. 
But  Oh!  dear  Lord,  my  soul  refuses  comfort; 
Vainly  I  strive  for  the  goal  beyond  this  sad,  sweet 

world 

Rest  for  eternity. 

Grant  then,  Oh !  Lord,  the  enlightenment  of  sorrow, 
That  gentle  faith  which  comes  through  grief  alone; 
Ripened  in  hours  of  darkest  tribulation, 
When  my  poor  soul  stood  face  to  face  with  Thee. 


52  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  MAIDEN  OF  TE  PITO  TE  HENUA,  AN  ISLAND 
IN  THE  SOUTH  PACIFIC. 

On  her  beautiful  puoka  (head) 

Hung  her  raven-black  rauoko  (hair) 

While  love  filled  her  mokoikoi  (heart) 

Her  alabaster  kiri  (skin) 

Gleamed  on  her  kapu  hivi   (shoulder). 

And  her  petticoats  came  down  to  her  kuri  (knee). 

Sweet  was  her  aerero  (tongue) ; 

White  were  her  even  niho  (teeth), 

And  graceful  her  kakari   munava    (waist)  ; 

Voluptuous  her  ngutu  (lips) 

And  shapely  were  her  heru  (legs). 

Well  developed  were  her  kiko  ua-ua  (muscles). 

Oh,  this  maid  of  Rapa  Nin  (island) 

Bore  a  rima  tuhi  hana  (ring). 

Beloved  was  she  by  a  tangala  (man), 

WTho  in  his  little  vaka  (boat) 

Caught  a  wedding  gift  of  ika  (fish) 

And  breathed  his  tale  of  love  in  her  ringa  (ear). 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  53 


AN  ACTOR'S  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies  a  body  whose  majestic  grace 

Drew  from  his  fellow-man  unstinted  praise; 
Who  lured  emotion  from  her  hiding  place, 

And  thrilled  the  world  with  deeds  of  other  days. 
He  that  possessed,  which  unto  Art  is  dear, 

A  grand  conception  of  unvarnished  truth; 
He  oft  provoked  a  smile,  more  oft  a  tear, 

Sublime  and  beauteous  in  his  manly  youth. 

Full  in  the  zenith  of  his  great  renown, 

God  gave  to  him  his  final  part  to  play ; 
While  Death  untimely  rung  the  curtain  down 

On  that  great  scene  where  man  doth  pass  away. 
The  rustling  leaves  soft  whisper  o'er  his  head, 

And  robins  fill  the  air  with  sweetest  sound; 
Within  the  theatre  of  the  mighty  dead 

The  actor  sleeps  beneath  the  sacred  ground. 


THE  LOVED  ONES  LEFT  BEHIND. 

There  are  sounds  of  martial  music, 

But  the  laugh  is  hushed  within, 

As  the  soldier  boys  march  bravely  down  the  street; 

A  little  child  is  weeping, 

As  she  listens  to  the  din, 

Of  kettle-drum  and  tramp  of  many  feet. 


54  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Oh!  my  papa!     Oh!  my  papa!" 
Wailed  the  tiny  little  mite. 

"You  have  gone  and  left  poor  mamma  all  alone; 
Come  back,  my  darling  papa, 
Oh!  do  come  home  tonight, 
And  see  how  good  your  little  girl  has  grown. 

"I  won't  be  naughty,  papa, 
And  I  won't  make  any  noise, 
When  papa's  head  is  aching  him  so  bad ; 
I  will  walk  about  so  quietly 
And  put  away  my  toys, 
Your  little  girl  won't  make  her  father  sad." 

But  the  tiny  voice  fell  empty, 

On  the  shadows  in  the  room, 

And  the  music  in  the  distance  fainter  grew; 

This  is  but  a  single  instance 

Of  the  scenes  within  the  gloom, 

Which  the  loved  ones  left  behind  are  passing  through. 


LIFE'S  VOYAGE  IN  VAIN. 

With  eyes  upcast  to  the  glistening  stars, 
Full  of  a  strange  mysterious  awe, 
I  watch  the  lights  on  the  heavenly  bar, 
And  think  of  the  ships  that  are  sailing  in, 
Cargoless,  empty,  their  voyage  in  vain. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  55 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STREAM. 

Born  on  some  distant  mountain  top, 
A  happy  wanderer  from  its  birth, 

From  stone  to  stone  with  merry  laugh 
It  dances  o'er  its  mother  earth. 

Then  with  some  gathering  streamlet  meets, 
With  bubbling  laughter  on  they  fling 

Their  glittering  sprays  through  sweet  retreats, 
And  cool  abodes  of  sylvan  king. 

The  mighty  river  next  appears, 

And  to  its  arms  the  youngsters  race, 

Then  separate  with  baby  tears, 

While  current  marshalls  each  in  place. 

And  last  the  ocean  heaves  in  view, 

Then  dies  for  aye  the  streamlet's  span; 

Death  is  the  ocean,  all  life  through, 

Whose  outstretched  arms  wait  every  man. 


56  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DRY  THINE  EYES. 

Dry  thine  eyes,  love ;  cease  thy  weeping, 
For  thy  boy  will  soon  be  sleeping 
Safe  within  the  angels'  keeping — 
Dry  thine  eyes. 

Hold  my  hand;  the  tide  is  flowing, 
Down  the  stream  my  boat  is  going, 
On  the  banks  the  kine  are  lowing, 
In  the  skies. 

See,  my  love,  the  shadows  creeping, 
Round  my  bed  while  I  am  sleeping, 
List!  I  hear  a  sound  of  weeping! 
Now  it  dies. 

Raise  me  up,  the  day  is  breaking; 
Streaks  of  gray  proclaim  its  waking; 
Sleep  my  weary  eyes  forsaking, 
In  the  light, 

Raise  me  up  that  I  may,  nearer, 
Watch  the  shades  becoming  clearer; 
Ebbing  life  seems  growing  dearer. 
But  my  sight 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  57 

Fails  again;  the  sombre  fretting 
Changes  now  to  golden  netting. 
See!  the  blood-red  sun  is  setting! 
Love,  good-night. 

Unto  God  my  soul  is  winging; 
I  can  hear  the  angels  singing; 
Joy  bells  overhead  are  ringing! 
Dry  thine  eyes. 


HONOR. 

When  aloft  two  young  hearts  are  soaring 
To  those  realms  of  pleasure  and  pain, 

The  law  and  the  prophets  ignoring, 

There's  a  something  recalls  them  again. 

And  the  truths  that  we  see  in  reflection, 
Sad  but  sweetly  encircle  the  soul, 

For  honor's  more  kind  than  affection 

That  creates,  then  destroys  the  loved  goal. 


58  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

SONG  TO  THE  MOON. 
(From  "Lionardo,  the  Gondolier.") 

Orb  of  some  mighty  potent  power 
In  thine  exalted  sphere, 
Thy  soft  light  maketh  sweet  the  hour 
Within  the  fairy  woodland  bower, 
To  maidenhood,  so  dear. 

Empress  of  Night,  thy  beauteous  spell 
Superb  and  matchless  given, 
Thy  light  the  lover  loves  so  well, 
The  gentle  tale  of  old  to  tell 
While  earth  becomes,  his  Heaven. 

Luna,  thou  goddess  of  the  night, 

Chaste  harbinger  of  love, 

I  feel  in  thy  sweet  fairy  light 

My  heart  again  grow  glad  and  bright, 

When  thou  dost  ride  above. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  59 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Awake,  fond  heart,  to  life  again, 
For  why  should  sorrow  ever 
Enshroud  the  past  with  endless  pain, 
Cause  bitter  tears  to  flow  in  vain 

For  those  passed  o'er  the  river? 

The  dead  are  gone — they  ne'er  return, 

Life's  troubles  here  are  ended; 
And  though  to  see  them  back  we  yearn, 
Christ's  teachings  lead  us  to  discern 
'Tis  not  what  God  intended. 

Who  can  the  curtain  thrust  aside, 

Or  gaze  through  Death's  dark  portals? 
Short  space  on  earth  doth  each  abide, 
Then  comes  his  call  to  swell  the  tide, 
Whose  waves  are  dying  mortals. 

We  all  must  die,  mayhap  this  night 
Our  souls  are  drifting  thither, 

Where  those  dear  loved  ones  lost  to  sight 

Await  us  there  in  glory  bright, 
Across  the  shining  river. 


60  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  UNEXPECTED  SUMMONS. 

Dead  in  his  chair.     The  sun's  expiring  rays 
With  crimson  glow  lights  up  the  rigid  face, 
And  in  the  unclosed  eyes  that  look  afar 
A  blood-red  sunbeam  finds  a  resting  place. 

Dead!  with  the  pen  still  clutched  in  pulseless  hand, 
"Dear  wife,"  sole  words  before  his  sightless  gaze. 
One  nerveless  arm  hangs  strangely  by  the  chair, 
While  at  his  frozen  feet  a  kitten  plays. 

Dead!  Can  it  be,  with  children's  shouts  without? 
So  still  he  sits.     How  painful  is  the  light, 
And  deeper  glows  the  crimson  on  his  face, 
The  sun  has  set,  Goodnight. 


OH!    'TIS  SWEET  TO  LIVE. 

The  funeral  march,  it  suiteth  not  my  mood, 
Its  Stygian  tones  are  those  on  which  men  brood. 
Beyond  its  solemn  measure  lies  the  tomb, 
And  shades  dissolving  in  eternal  gloom., 

Nay!  rather  let  me  hear  some  lively  air, 
Whose  Springtime  notes  suggest  a  morning  fair, 
Filled  with  the  pulsing  joys  that  life  can  give, 
On  this  old  earth,  for  oh!  'tis  sweet  to  live. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  6 1 


TOO  LATE. 

The  corn  may  spring,  the  corn  may  spring, 

And  thou  beside  the  river  walk; 

Yet  sad  must  be  the  song  you  sing, 

A  withered  flower  on  the  stalk. 

The  elms  overhead  are  sighing, 
The  solemn  rooks  around  are  flying, 
Caw,  Caw!    Caw,  Caw! 

And  once  'twas  here  we  walked  alone, 
In  that  sweet  hush  of  eventide, 
Before  thy  heart  had  turned  to  stone, 
Before  thy  love  for  me  had  died. 
The  elms  overhead  are  sighing, 
The  solemn  rooks  around  are  flying, 
Caw,  Caw!    Caw,  Caw! 

Beyond  the  fence  in  peace  I  sleep, 
And  soughing  breezes  kiss  my  grave. 
I  hear  my  name,  and  thou  dost  weep, 
For  I  was  fair  and  thou  wert  brave. 
The  elms  overhead  are  sighing, 
The  solemn  rooks  around  are  flying, 
Caw,  Caw!    Caw,  Caw! 

I  hear  thee  coming  through  the  gate, 
I  feel  thee  kneeling  at  my  head. 
I  hear  thy  cry,  "Too  late!  Too  late!" 
I  love  her  now  and  she  is  dead. 


62  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  elms  overhead  are  sighing, 
The  solemn  rooks  around  are  flying, 
Caw,  Caw!    Caw,  Caw! 


SONG  OF  ATTILA. 
(From  "Lionardo,  the  Gondolier.") 

I'll  sing  you  a  song  about  great  Attila, 

A  mighty  man  was  he. 

He  was  King  of  the  Huns,  had  seventy  sons, 

And  daughters  one  hundred  and  three,  three,  three, 

And  daughters  i,  o,  3. 

All  nations  vowed  him  a  very  fine  fellow, 

With  them  he  couldn't  agree; 

One  Autumn  so  mellow,  he  conquered  Torcello 

A.  D.  four  hundred  and  forty-three, 

Anno  Domini  4,  4,  3. 

So  he  left  a  son  to  watch  over  the  place, 

Though  round  it  flowed  the  sea, 

And  all  over  the  place  sprang  the  Kingly  race 

Of  Torcellani — that's  me,  me,  me, 

Anno  Domini  4,  4,  3. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  63 


DREAMS. 

Midst  pastoral  lands  and  purling  recluse  streams 
There  dwells  the  maiden  queen  of  recreant  dreams, 
Gentian  by  name,  a  maid  most  wondrous  fair, 
With  eyes  like  astral  and  her  glorious  hair, 
Tangled  with  moonbeams,  disputes  the  right 
Of  other  garb  to  veil  the  beauteous  sight. 
Her  skin,  as  white  as  Ida's  Cretean  snow, 
Outlines  a  form  of  soft  voluptuous  flow 
Of  grace  majestic,  contours  fair  to  see, 
Exquisite  in  their  matchless  symmetry; 
While,  crowning  all,  a  sweet  and  noble  grace 
Marks  every  movement  and  overspreads  her  face. 
And  having  this  described  this  noctal  flower, 
The  Muse  will  now  define  sweet  Gentian's  power. 
From  out  her  bower  of  amaranthine  hue 
She  peers  with  eyes  of  soft,  exquisite  blue, 
And  breathing  gently,  like  a  zephyr's  kiss, 
Enjoys  alone  the  core  of  perfect  bliss. 
Queen  of  a  land,  to  every  mortal  given 
A  glimpse,  at  least,  of  what  perchance  is  heaven; 
Queen  of  a  land  of  terror,  shame  and  crime, 
From  life  to  death,  and  all  that  marketh  time. 
Queen  of  a  land  more  wondrous  than  our  own 
Sweet  Gentian  reigns,  and  sways  the  realm  alone. 
Mistress  of  nations,  every  soul  on  earth 
Becomes  her  vassal  at  the  hour  of  birth. 
Kings  are  her  subjects,  as  the  peasant  boy, 
And  brilliant  minds  with  her  a  fancy  toy. 


64  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Once  steeped  in  sleep,  all  minds  become  as  one, 
For  Gentian's  spell  o'er  man  has  then  begun. 
No  longer  cares  of  base  terrestrial  clay 
Torment  the  soul  with  visions  of  the  day. 
Earth  is  no  more,  the  river  crossed  is  deep, 
Man  dies  each  time  his  head  is  bowed  in  sleep, 
And  Gentian  paints  the  sphere  to  suit  her  mind 
Capricious  as  the  sex  of  womankind. 
Now  steeped  in  bliss  she  leads  the  love-sick  swain 
And  gives  the  kiss  for  which  he  sighed  in  vain. 
The  maid  who  but  that  morn  his  glances  fled 
Caresses  lovingly  his  restless  head. 
The  hapless  poet  who  is  lost  to  fame 
Hears  in  his  sleep  his  own  illustrious  name, 
And,  laurel  crowned,  looks  back  with  scornful  eye 
Into  a  past  of  mean  obscurity. 
The  ship-wrecked  boy  on  some  far  distant  shore 
In  happy  dreamland  sees  his  home  once  more, 
His  mother's  face  aglow  with  pride  and  joy 
As  to  her  breast  she  clasps  her  sailor  boy, 
And  summer  seas  beat  on  the  golden  sand 
That  forms  the  shore  of  Gentian's  wonderland. 
The  ruined  merchant's  heart  again  grows  light, 
As  fortune  smiles  on  him  at  dead  of  night, 
And  sheriff's  sales  and  judgment  notes  confessed 
No  longer  break  the  weary  toiler's  rest. 
Proudly  he  says,  "My  word  is  now  my  bond," 
And  coins  the  yellow  dross  with  Gentian's  wand. 
The  holy  man,  by  church  ordained  a  priest, 
In  dreams  partaketh  of  the  merry  feast, 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  65 

And  sparkling  glances  when  the  hour  is  late 

Make  roguish  havoc  with  the  celibate. 

"Avaunt !"  he  cries,  "such  joys  are  not  for  me." 

And  wakes  in  prayer  upon  his  bended  knee. 

The  scientist  retires  with  addled  brain 

To  dream  his  fretful  genius  o'er  again, 

When  from  Cimmerian  darkness  breaks  a  light 

The  Atlantic  bridged  bursts  on  his  'stonished  sight. 

And  then  his  mind  is  turned  to  stranger  things, 

As  up  he  soars  on  his  invented  wings. 

Begrimed  with  coal,  the  miner  goes  to  rest 

And  sharp-drawn  breaths  inflate  his  manly  chest. 

Sudden,  the  clothes  are  rudely  thrust  aside, 

His  eyes  with  terror  now  stand  open  wide; 

The  roof  is  falling,  God!  the  whole  mine  shakes! 

A  loud  explosion,  'tis  a  dream,  he  wakes. 

A  little  elf,  a  girl,  a  tiny  tot, 

With  waxen  face,  indents  the  baby  cot, 

And  visions  fair  regale  her  infant  sight 

Of  cakes  and  candy  through  the  silent  night. 

Sleep,  little  angel,  Gentian  marks  thy  worth, 

A  sleeping  child,  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth. 

'Midst  dirt  and  filth,  at  night  the  city  gloom 

Steals  weird  and  sickly  to  a  garret  room, 

Where,  breathing  hard  upon  a  mattress  bare, 

A  girlish  form  is  outlined  sleeping  there. 

One  of  the  lost,  polluted,  base,  defiled, 

Yet  once  she  slept,  a  little  angel  child. 

And  now  she  moves,  sweet  Gentian  enters  in, 

And  she  is  pure  again  and  free  from  sin. 


66  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  dry,  parched  lips  with  innocence  now  speak, 

And  balmy  breezes  fan  the  fevered  cheek. 

The  little  white-washed  cottage  standeth  near 

And  mother's  voice  sounds  sweetly  on  her  ear, 

While  from  the  fields  the  scent  of  new  mown  hay 

Comes  strong  and  lusty  at  the  close  of  day. 

Her  little  sisters  and  her  brothers  wait 

For  her  to  join  them  at  the  garden  gate, 

And  in  her  sleep  her  laugh  is  undefiled, 

For  she  is  once  again  a  little  child. 

The  anxious  farmer  sees  his  fallow  land 

Yield  heavy  crops  beneath  the  reaper's  hand, 

And  barren  orchards  bend  beneath  the  weight 

Of  golden  fruit,  'twas  joy  to  cultivate. 

No  landlord's  agent  doth  his  peace  invade. 

He  dreams  of  ownership,  and  taxes  paid. 

The  country  parson  turns  and  twists  in  bed, 

As  mighty  thoughts  run  rampant  through  his  head. 

He  mounts  the  village  pulpit  wreathed  in  smiles, 

And  proudly  gazes  down  the  crowded  aisles. 

Forgot  is  life,  with  its  unvarnished  views 

And  vault-like  echoes  from  the  empty  pews, 

The  church  is  filled,  his  lips  now  move  in  prayer, 

And  touched  is  every  heart  that's  gathered  there. 

Not  satisfied,  his  sermon  follows  next, 

And  from  a  flower  he  takes  his  simple  text. 

Now  thrills  his  audience  with  his  eloquence, 

And  marvels  greatly  at  his  common  sense; 

And  as  he  speaks  with  love  of  our  dear  Lord, 

He  sees  ahead  his  well-earned,  just  reward. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  67 

A  scholar,  preacher,  helper  of  the  sick, 
He  gets  at  last  a  lawn-sleeved  bishopric, 
But  soon  as  he  the  pastoral  crosier  takes, 
The  country  parson  to  himself  awakes. 
The  hapless  monarch  on  his  bed  of  down 
No  longer  sinks  beneath  the  jeweled  crown; 
His  mind  expands  with  liberty  of  thought, 
And  heart  proclaims  his  king-ship  dearly  bought. 
In  sleep  alone,  his  deep-drawn  sighs  confess 
His  heart's  desire,  domestic  happiness. 
"Domestic  happiness/'  sweet  Gentian  sings, 
"Belongs  to  laborers,  and  not  to  kings." 
And  so  she  bids  us  with  a  graceful  ease 
Assume  a  virtue  of  some  dread  disease, 
Which  pleases  best  the  tricky  fairy's  mind, 
Who  hurts  so  much  and  yet  can  be  so  kind. 
Well  do  we  know  how  perfect  is  her  will 
Who  makes  us  love  the  rival  we  would  kill, 
Or  vice  versa,  which  more  awful  seems 
She  makes  us  kill  our  rival  in  our  dreams. 
Ah!  gentle  Gentian,  what  a  power  is  thine, 
To  be  so  cruel  and  yet  so  divine. 


WHO  LOOKS  BEYOND. 

There  is  a  grandeur  in  the  man, 

Who  views  with  calm  that  endless  sleep; 
Who  looks  beyond  the  taking  off, 

Conceives  the  goal  beyond  the  deep. 


68  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


READY  TO  DIE. 

Life  is  a  sarcasm  rare, 

It  stands  in  a  class  of  its  own, 
While  love  thrills  the  heart  of  the  fair 

Decay  is  at  work  on  the  bone. 

That  instant  the  clasp  is  undone 
The  mantle  of  life  slips  away, 

And  beauty  men  worshipped  of  yore 
Becomes  but  inanimate  clay. 

There's  reason  in  all  things  save  death, 

And  no  one  knows  why  that  should  be ; 

What  is  there  mysterious  in  breath, 
That  it  should  so  suddenly  flee  ? 

Nay,  ask  not  the  bent,  aged  form, 

The  cripple,  the  starving,  the  weak, 

But  he  whose  life-blood  courses  warm, 
With  health  in  his  eye,  on  his  cheek. 

Go  ask  him  what  thinks  he  of  death, 
He  will  laugh  in  his  heart  for  reply, 

With  sarcasm  bating  his  breath, 

He  will  tell  you  he's  ready  to  die. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  69 


THE   SOUL. 

"Your  soul!  your  soul!"  the  preachers  cry. 
"What  is  a  soul?"  is  man's  reply. 
"To  know  his  soul,  must  man  not  die?" 

"What  is  a  soul?"  I'm  glad  you  ask. 
The  soul  is  life,  the  form,  the  mask. 
The  answer  was  not  such  a  task. 

The  soul  is  in  the  ambient  air, 
Down  in  the  earth,  in  landscape  fair. 
'Tis  in  the  sea,  'tis  everywhere. 

Bancroft  Librae? 

To  know  his  soul  man  must  not  die, 
For  'tis  the  life  he  liveth  by, 
Connecting  him  with  God  on  high. 


7O  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WHERE  LIFE  BEGAN. 

Theme  by  uncounted  thousands  written, 

In  Sanscrit,  Greek,  Teutonic,  Latin; 

Theme  that  bewildered  all  their  senses, 

Theme  on  which  vapory  thought  condenses; 

Stupendous,  contradictory,  thrilling, 

A  most  mysterious  part  fulfilling; 

An  endless  night  that  has  no  morning, 

Though  millions  tear-dimmed  wait  its  dawning; 

A  theme  divine,  in  doubt  distressing, 

A  curse  to  some,  to  more  a  blessing; 

Where  life  began — and  where  it  ceases? 

The  more  we  think  the  light  decreases.  , 

Conflicting  doubts  half  smother  reason, 

Which  complicates  with  age  and  season, 

Until,  with  aching  brain  confessing, 

The  greatest  sage  returns  to  guessing. 

Happy  that  simple-hearted  creature 

Who  in  the  Bible  finds  a  teacher. 

THE  GRANDEUR  OF  DEATH. 

Oh!  Death  sublime,  the  end  of  our  tempestuous  struggle 

here, 
Enfolding  arms,  and  breast  on  which  to  lay  our  troubled 

head, 
Eternal    Gates!    through   which   we   turn   our    face  from 

earthly  cares, 
And  then  our  God,   whose  outstretched  arms  await  the 

ransomed  Dead. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  Jl 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

And  when  the  curfew  of  our  life 
Proclaims  that  even-tide  has  come, 
And  peaceful  shadows  end  the  strife, 
The  day  is  done, 
The  goal  is  won. 


DEATH'S  COURTSHIP. 

Life  has  been  thy  courtship,  sad  thy  .smile, 
Persistent  wooer,  always  by  my  side ; 

Pray  leave  me  with  the  things  of  earth  awhile, 
Said  I  that  I  e'er  loved  thee?    Then  I  lied. 


AN  APPEAL  TO  HIM. 

So  weak,  dear  Lord,  so  tired, 

And  Thou  so  great  and  strong. 

Wilt  Thou  not  stretch  Thine  hand  to  earth, 
To  help  a  soul  along? 


72  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 
• 
"Christ  was  born  today!" 

Hear  the  joy  bells  ringing, 
"Christ  was  born  today!" 

Hear  the  children  singing. 
"Christ  was  born  today, 

Christ  was  born  today!" 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 
Hear  the  love-bells  ringing; 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 
Hear  the  old  folks  singing. 

"Christ  was  born  today, 
Christ  was  born  today!" 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 
Joy  and  gladness  bringing, 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 
All  the  world  is  singing. 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 
Forever  and  for  aye, 

"Christ  was  born  today!" 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  73 


WILT  THOU,  LORD,  STAND  FOR  ME? 

I've  girded  on  my  armor, 

To  battle  for  the  Lord ; 
Though  all  the  world  oppose  me, 

I  will  uphold  His  Word. 
Though  tired,   wounded,   bleeding, 

My  sword  still  flashes  free. 
I  stand  for  Thee,  Lord  Jesus, 

Wilt  Thou,  Lord,  stand  for  me? 

His  name  is  on  my  banner 

In  letters  writ  in  gold; 
The  glorious  name  of  JESUS 

Let  all  the  world  behold, 
And  in  the  mighty  combat 

My  leader's  face  I  see. 
I  stand  for  Thee,  Lord  Jesus, 

Wilt  Thou,  Lord,  stand  for  me? 


74  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MY  SAVIOUR  UNDERSTANDS. 

It  is  the  Lord  of  Heaven  tonight 

Who's  speaking  unto  me, 
And  I  can  see  His  radiant  light 

With  great  intensity. 
He's  here  beside  me  now, 

He  takes  my  trembling  hands. 
Shout  out — let  all  the  world  shout  out, 

My  Saviour  understands. 


HELP  US,  GREAT  FRIEND. 

Many  there  are  who  would  love  to  see 

Things  as  they  are, 

Things  as  they  are. 

Life  is  not  what  we  want  it  to  be. 

Not  what  we  want  it  to  be : 

God,  give  us  light, 

God,  give  us  sight, 

God,  send  us  peace  ere  the  coming  of  night. 

Many  there  are  who  desire  to  do 

That  which  is  right, 

That  which  is  right. 

Vainly  we  strive  with  this  end  in  view, 

Strive  with  this  end  in  view : 

Help  us,  Great  Friend, 

Strength  to  us  send, 

Be  our  Protector,  dear  Lord,  to  the  end. 


THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  75 


INTO  THE  VALLEY  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Through  all  the  bitter  cares  of  life, 

One  sadder  sight  I  see; 
My  own  dear  Saviour,  on  the  Cross, 

Who  died  on  Calvary. 
What  are  my  aches  to  His? 

Then  why  should  I  despair? 
The  One  who  gave  His  life  for  all 

Will  help  our  Cross  to  bear. 

Into  the  valley  of  my  soul, 

Where  deep  the  shadows  lie, 
There  comes  a  shout  from  Calvary: 

'Took  upward  to  the  sky! 
Look  up,  Oh!  fainting  heart, 

His  outstretched  arms  receive; 
For  Christ  is  coming  down  to  earth, 

Look  up,  faint  heart!     Believe!" 


Albuquerque,  New  Mexico, 
May  14,  1921. 


